As Normal As Can Be
by Viva Raine
Summary: "Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi escaped many things when he and his Master left Coruscant to rescue the galaxy. Unfortunately, there were a few things that didn't quite get the memo, and illnesses were one of them." Or, Obi-Wan is sick and it forces he and Qui-Gon to sort out a few things in their relationship. Warning: vomiting. NOT slash. Father/son relationship.


Hi everyone, I'm back! And what do you know, attending Star Wars Celebration this past Sunday has inspired me to write some more Star Wars fanfiction, so here you have it. I literally got home at 2am last night, had a half day at school and then cranked out this story in a little over 4 hours. But I've learned that the best stories come out of the least sleep, so I guess we'll see...

Warning: Vomiting/Sickfic

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**As Normal As Can Be**

Jedi Padawan Obi-Wan Kenobi escaped many things when he and his master were called to a mission. School work, mid-day meditations, healer's check-ups - all of those were more or less ignored when he left Coruscant to rescue the galaxy. Unfortunately, there were a few things that didn't quite get the memo, and illnesses were one of them. In fact, it was rather commonplace for him to pick something up soon after they left the temple, and it had been for the past five years since he'd been apprenticed to Qui-Gon Jinn. Maybe it was the climate changes, or the altitude drops and climbs, or the stress of the missions; they had never really figured it out, but they'd learned to pack for a few sniffles or a couple particularly inconvenient headaches. Besides, Obi-Wan wasn't Qui-Gon's first padawan and he hadn't gone through those experiences for nothing. If he'd learned anything from them, it was to be prepared.

One thing, however, despite any amount of experience, that Qui-Gon never quite anticipated, was the stomach ailments that would plague his Padawan from time to time during missions. There was no quick fix to them, no way to mask them, no particular method of curing them or avoiding the inevitable mess that seemed to be his Padawan's fate. And in Obi-Wan's case, there wasn't always a way to tell what the cause of his symptoms were either - food poisoning, motion sickness, allergies and viruses were all potential sources of his discomfort. Typically, the latter seemed to be the worst, having no prevention method and no cure. Not to mention that it was contagious, and lasted from anywhere from three hours to three days.

So, instinctively - and perhaps a bit desperately - when Qui-Gon's seventeen-year-old Padawan trudged into the cockpit of their ship and sunk into the co-pilot seat with his arm around his middle, his first reaction was to blame anything else he could think of.

"But Master," Obi-Wan was protesting for the third time. "I really don't think I'm space sick." He was probably right too. They hadn't experienced any turbulence, and their artificial gravity system was working fine. "It just hurts."

Sympathetically, Qui-Gon grimaced, not denying or affirming the claim, but nonetheless trying to support his Padawan in any way he could. Despite the frequencies of Obi-Wan's many health issues, it never grew any less heartrending to watch the apprentice he viewed as his son suffer. "I know, Padawan. I'm sorry." The teenager let out a whiny, whimpering sound, and at any other time Qui-Gon would have disapproved of his childishness, but under the circumstances, the least he could do was let it slide. "Is there anything I can do?"

Obi-Wan shrugged, uncomfortably twirling his braid around his finger. "Don't think so. Thank you, Master." It was clear that he was in pain; his face was contorted into a tight grimace, one arm was snaked around his stomach, and the other he used to comb through his already unruly hair whenever a particularly strong wave of pain washed over him. "How long 'till we get there?" Apparently, Qui-Gon wasn't the only one desperately clinging to possibility of motion sickness. Or else Obi-Wan was just counting down the minutes until he could collapse into any semblance of a bed and rest.

From his place in the pilot's seat, Qui-Gon glanced at the navi-computer. It wasn't often that they flew their own ships, but it had been requested that this mission be carried out in top secret, so the less people who were aware of it, the better. And while Qui-Gon was a decently skilled pilot, it wasn't helping Obi-Wan's predicament that he wasn't a professional. "About three hours. You should try to get some sleep, Obi-Wan."

Again, he shrugged, turning sideways to lean his head against the back of the seat and pulling his robe tighter around him in an attempt to suppress the shivers. "Won't be able to." It didn't escape Qui-Gon's notice that his normally polite and sophisticated Padawan's speech had been reduced to clipped sentences and two word answers.

Punching a few numbers into the computer, he turned to Obi-Wan and patted his knee gently. "Are you feeling nauseous?"

He shook his head slightly, almost too gently to see. "Not really. Not yet." The inevitable _soon _hung over him, and he bit back another whimper, instead clutching his hand into a fist until his nails bit into his skin. "It hurts though." A helpless look crossed his face, and, "Can you do...anything?" slipped out before his determined facade overcame the weakness again.

It was Qui-Gon's turn to shrug, looking just as helpless as his padawan felt. "Would some soda help? Perhaps some tea?" He wasn't sure how much it physically helped, but whenever Obi-Wan was feeling under the weather, mint tea always seemed to offer him some sort of comfort. Whether it was in his health or emotional state, he couldn't tell, but who was he to steal any sort of consolation from his suffering apprentice?

"We don't have any. I checked. Couldn't even find any medicine. This ship is practically empty." It made sense; they were entering an extremely socially precarious situation, and anything that could imply to the natives any lack of trust or confrontational spirit could get them killed and the treaty destroyed. They had barely been allowed to bring their clothing. Still, it hurt a bit, that Obi-Wan had already searched, alone, for anything to soothe his pain, and coming up empty handed had simply succumbed to his fate. Even though there wasn't really much else he could have done.

He placed two fingers underneath Obi-Wan chin, gently lifting his face to look him in the eye. "If you need anything, let me know, Obi-Wan. It is no burden to care for you." The padawan glanced away, as if he didn't quite believe it. "I swear by the Force, Padawan. It burdens me more to watch you suffer alone than it does to help you."

Obi-Wan squirmed away and re-settled himself against the seat. "Okay," he whispered. "Thank you." There were a few moments of blessed silence, in which the only sounds were the rhythmic humming of the ships engine and the gently swooping sound of hyperspace swirling around them, until Obi-Wan shifted slightly and murmured. "I feel nauseous now."

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"You might want to brace yourself, Obi-Wan," Qui-Gon called behind his shoulder, to where his Padawan had found a place on the floor to share with his nausea and his makeshift bucket that was there in case his first companion got out of hand. "I have a feeling this might not be a pretty landing." It was well known that Yiilderon's humid, rainy atmosphere didn't make for the most stranger-friendly piloting. It took a native to land any kind of craft smoothly in clear weather in such an atmosphere - much less an amateur foreigner in the rain.

From behind him, Obi-Wan groaned softly, a sure sign that his misery had reached unhideable measures. "Master…" he whined, although it was more tearful than annoying; a pitiable expression for a seventeen-year-old Jedi, but an understandable one just the same. He wasn't crying, but his breathing hitched shakily just the same and he couldn't help it. "Master, I don't feel good."

Steering erratically through the dark clouds than ran to meet him the second he exited hyperspace, Qui-Gon distractedly did his best to comfort his Padawan. "I know, Obi-Wan, I know. I'm so sorry." A bit overwhelmed by the chaotic sky, he centered himself briefly in the Force before flipping several switches and executing a perfect twirl amid the thundering clouds. It would have been beautiful, if it hadn't been for the pained moan that reached his ears directly afterwards.

Three flips and an innumerable number of sharp turns later, Obi-Wan's childish sounds of distress had taken on a desperate tone that Qui-Gon had come to recognize over the years, and he spared a second to turn and glimpse at his pale, trembling Padawan. "Are you going to throw up?" Honestly, he didn't blame him. At this point he was feeling a little queasy himself.

"Not-" Obi-Wan swallowed hastily as their ship jumped choppily between swirling debris. "Not yet. I hope." He didn't sound very certain, and it was no wonder either. They'd already been fighting the chaotic weather for ten minutes, and neither of them felt as if they'd gotten any closer to the ground.

"Flight control," Qui-Gon spoke into the comm, addressing the planet's base. "Requesting landing permission and flight aid." He debated mentioning his sick Padawan, weighing the negative and positive effects - on one hand, it might gain them sympathy and compassion, while on the other it might further upset the unstable social balance they'd just entered the equation of. In the end, he decided that it was best to be honest - especially since Obi-Wan wasn't known for overnight recoveries, and they were bound to find out anyways. "I also have an ill adolescent in my company. He presents no threat to your people, but any aid would be greatly appreciated."

There was silence, and for a moment Qui-Gon felt the first twinges of panic, until the line crackled and a high, nasal voice pierced the cockpit, doing nothing to help Obi-Wan's condition. "Acknowledged. Identification requested."

Behind him, Obi-Wan held his stomach and bent over double where he sat, doing his best not to vomit while his master spoke to the officials of the planet. Sympathy was too weak a word to describe what Qui-Gon felt watching him, helpless and overwhelmed. "I'm so sorry, Padawan, but they'll need your voice to identify you, and I can't do that without you coming up here." He patted the seat beside him as if he was inviting a child to be seated. He fought the urge to pull the teenager to his chest and hold him until he felt better, like he'd done when he was twelve.

Obi-Wan wrestled back the tears that dreaded the idea of jostling his already upset enough stomach. "I can't, Master… I can't." He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to be doing this, he didn't want to have to move or talk or be alive. "I want Tahl."

And it simultaneously warmed Qui-Gon's heart and broke it, that his Padawan had looked up to the love of his life as a mother figure, and that she would never be there to offer him comfort again. "I know, Obi. I want her too." But it was hardly the time to reminisce over long gone relationships, with shadowy storms trailing behind them and a gloomy mission looming ahead. "But you can do it, I know you can. Just come sit here."

Painfully, slowly, he inched forward and the closer he got to the copilot's seat, the closer he came to losing his inevitable battle. He dragged a blanket behind him, and placed the bowl on his lap as he leaned his head against the seat again and reveled in its relative softness to the wall. "Obi-Wan Kenobi," he murmured when the comm was connected.

"Qui-Gon Jinn." There was a bit of a pause, and for a moment, they both felt the nagging fear that they might not be permitted inside, despite the fact that their precense had been requested in the first place. Finally, after an agonizing moment, a loud beep chirped in the ship, followed by,

"Your landing permit and identification has been validated, and you will be sent aid as soon as possible. Until it arrives, please maintain atmospheric orbit and do not disturb our planet's climate or wildlife or break contact."

"Acknowledged, thank you. Repeat: acknowledged."

Qui-Gon sank back into his seat in relief, gently patting Obi-Wan's shoulder. This was the more conservative side of the planet, he presumed; Yiilderon's prominent social dilemma was the intense political debates between those who desired to preserve the planet's original state, beauty, laws and wildlife, and those who found it in everyone's best interest to break free from the chains of the past and step into a new era of an industrial, modern and financially beneficial age. Both had their weaknesses, and their strengths, and the argument had come to violence, causing the leaders of both sides to call upon the Jedi. To the best of Qui-Gon's knowledge, the seat of influence fluctuated from time to time, but judging by the specific instructions, he assumed that the former party was holding the leadership today.

Releasing his tension and relief into the Force, he turned to Obi-Wan. "How are you feeling, Padawan?"

The apprentice shifted slightly, the white pallor in his cheeks gradually fading into pasty-like green. "Like I'm going to throw up any moment." His dry wit still intact despite his miserable discomfort, he added. "It's not high on my list of favorite feelings."

"Or on anyone's, for that matter," the Master responded, enjoying the way the slight banter detracted from the despair of the circumstance. "Unfortunately for you, you seem to have become more intimate with it than most would prefer."

"Trust me," Obi-Wan muttered, swallowing thickly as nausea returned full force again and he shivered, feeling cold sweat drip down his neck and his limbs trembling. "It wasn't my decision."

There was some aspect of a joke in it, but that was perhaps just saying something about the master and padawan, that they were able to make light of such a burdening condition; Obi-Wan's slew of medical limitations was a challenge to say the least. He was highly susceptible to motion sickness, had a weakened immune system, several allergies - food allergies and otherwise… But still, he was one of the most stubborn the Jedi had ever seen and he didn't let it limit his accomplishments.

Not to mention that when he fell ill, he didn't do it halfway. "Master…" His defined Coruscanti accent roughened into more of an Inner Rim brogue as he whimpered, and he unconsciously leaned towards his Master's shoulder, craving the affection that the childish need in him insisted would make him feel better. "Master, I'm going to throw up."

And what could Qui-Gon do, but invite his Padawan to come closer and assure him, "I know, Obi. It's okay. I know."

Obi-Wan leaned over slightly, holding the bowl against his chest as a few errant tears slipped away from his slick eyelashes and he shivered violently. "I h-hate this, so-so much." His chest heaved slightly, and he couldn't tell whether it was the beginning of a sob or a retch. Or both. "Master," he cried, like a clingy child, like a broken toy. "Master, Master…"

Adding a bit of altitude and gearing the ship into autopilot, Qui-Gon took his hands off the controls, using one to gently rub his Padawan's back and the other to hold back his braid away from his face as he coughed wetly, crying. No matter how many times they went through this, it never got any easier to watch the seventeen-year-old go through such misery.

"What can I do, Obi-Wan?"

"Just-" A harsh wave of nausea cut him off and he clutched the hem of his master's tunic harder, despite all his determination to remain strong. It was always mortifying, that no matter how independent he typically was, how mature, how talented, he could never stop needing his Master when he felt ill. When he felt overwhelmed. When he felt broken-hearted. It was like a child with their parent, he supposed; after all, he'd long considered Qui-Gon his father figure. Which made it slightly less humiliating, how much he _needed _him. "Just… just stay."

Qui-Gon didn't mention the fact that Obi-Wan was seventeen, that he should be able to care for himself, that he was being clingy or that he couldn't have left him even if he wanted to, being confined in the ship. Instead, he gently ran his hand through Obi-Wan's hair, brushing back the copper colored spikes and gauging the temperature of his clammy forehead. "Of course, my Padawan. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here." It was hardly any real form of comfort, when the teenager was bent over, choking, sobbing, violently losing his recent meals in the co-pilots's seat of a nondescript ship in a stormy, turbulent sea of clouds, but it was the best he could do.

"Master," Obi-Wan choked again. He spit into the bowl miserably, tilting his head back when he was sure he was done and breathing harshly, his glassy eyes still streaming hot tears down the sides of his cheeks and his mouth still watery like it wasn't finished torturing him yet. "No, please. I can't…" It was all he could manage before he was bent over again, clinging tightly to the bowl and reveling in his master's grounding touch, the only things keeping him firmly planted in reality.

Coughing and panting, he reached out blindly to grasp Qui-Gon's arm and squeezed it until his hand hurt, in too much pain to consider what he might be doing to his master. His stomach roiled violently, tossing identically to the thunder clouds around him, and it growled at him menacingly at him before turning inside out again. "Stop," he begged. "Please, please… Master. Master." He paused, coughed, hiccuped. "Master… Father… I need you."

It took several seconds - too long, from the Padawan's point of view, too short from the Master's - for Obi-Wan to realize what he'd said, and despite the impossibly tight ball he was already curled into on the seat, he folded himself into an even smaller, embarrassed lump, shame and mortification burning hot in the Force.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry," he cried, mistaking Qui-Gon's silence for disapproval. It was no longer merely tears escaping his lashes, but full sobs tearing their way from his chest. "Don't send me back. Please. Please. I can be better. I promise. I'll do better. I take it back, what I said, it wasn't true… please!"

And it burned, it hurt, it tore at Qui-Gon's heart, to be so forcefully reminded that the wounds he'd inflicted on his Padawan so early on had never fully healed. That maybe they never would. That maybe such careless and thoughtless actions of the past had taken part in shaping a future for his child, and had introduced to his undiluted potential the looming fear of not measuring up. Of not being enough. Of not deserving love. There was no greater pain than knowing that Obi-Wan felt he had to earn his place, that he was afraid to express his feelings, that he wasn't sure of his place as his Padawan and his son, and that it was all his fault.

He was sorry. He was so, so sorry, but all his guilt and apologies had done nothing to heal the scars. And all the while he wrestled with his own demons, Obi-Wan mistook his silence for anger. Which made it all the worse. "No, Obi-Wan, no. Never. I'm right here, Obi-Wan. I'm never sending you away. Ever. I promise." The Padawan's sobs quieted a little, but loud hiccups still escaped him, accentuating his still remaining youth and likely causing his nausea to linger. "I'm never going anywhere, I love you Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan's stormy blue eyes widened at the statement, a little hopeful smile on his lips, and oh - oh Force, how had he never told him. How had he just assumed that his innocent broken child had known how much he was loved, how much he was wanted. How, how had he forgotten. How was he such a horrendous master, that he'd never told the boy he'd been raising for five years how much he meant to him.

"Oh, I love you Obi-Wan, I do, so much. I love you, like my son, nothing less. I'm so sorry, Obi-Wan. I'm so sorry."

Tears spilled over copper lashes from twin turquoise oceans, but Qui-Gon suspected they were no longer from anguish, but relief. Obi-Wan inhaled sharply, shakily, murmuring some incoherent thing to himself over and over again. Gradually, the mantra got louder and louder, until Qui-Gon could make out wobbly word from quivering lips: "He doesn't hate me… he wants me… he doesn't hate me… he doesn't hate me…"

And tears threatened to fall from the Master's eyes as well, as he teetered between assuring his Padawan of his love and wallowing in his own regret. It wasn't an easy choice and it wasn't entirely his own either; his heart seeming to be warring a battle, leaving his rational self on the sidelines, merely cheering for one side or the other.

In the end, neither side won, and instead he was called back into reality by the cracking voice of his Padawan, as he called him, still pale and shaking. "Master…" he whispered hoarsely. "I lied." He sighed tiredly, looking much more than physically exhausted - his very soul seemed much too fatigued for a seventeen-year-old. "I did mean it." Timidly, he played with the beads in his braid, staring at the ground, deliberately avoiding eye contact with his bucket.

Qui-Gon once again placed his fingers under Obi-Wan's chin, tilting up his shy, downcast gaze. "I meant it too. When I called you my son."

Tearfully, the Padawan smiled at his Master and felt a gentle crack in the walls he'd built around himself. Maybe he wasn't hated, maybe he wasn't pathetic, maybe he wasn't the worst excuse for a Jedi the galaxy had ever known. Maybe he was wanted, maybe he was loved, maybe-

"Qui-Gon Jinn, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you are cleared for landing. Welcome to Yiilderon."

The voice crackled through the speakers, and just like that, everything was back to normal. Or, as normal as things could be, with a certain seventeen-year-old Jedi throwing up in the copilot's seat of a starship and his long-haired Master doing his best not to let his own choppy flying force him into the same fate.

Normal, or as close as it got for a Master and an Apprentice; a father and a son.

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Aaaannnd there you have it, folks! What did you think? Do you want a part two? And if you were at Celebration, or watched it, what was your favorite part? I love hearing from you all, have an amazing day! 3 :D


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